


Different Sides of The Moon

by rinacriedpower



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Neighbors, Past Infidelity, Post-Divorce, ex-husband pops in sometimes to fuck shit up, no beta we die like men, reader is trying to move on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29195067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinacriedpower/pseuds/rinacriedpower
Summary: You both have too much going on, that's something you two agree on. Past wounds, a divorce, the hunt for Escobar...It wasn't exclusive, by any means – just a warm, dependable body to turn to when starved for the euphoria of drowning in a touch. That was the deal you made with Javier Peña. And it made perfect sense... until it somehow didn't.
Relationships: Connie Murphy & Reader, Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You, Original Male Character(s)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Different Sides of The Moon

_**It’s hard to define the beginning of a story. You might say that your story begins on the day you were brought into this world, but then again, we all are much more than just what we have lived through. There are our parents in our DNA, our kindred in our blood, our ancient ancestors in our souls. And every single choice they made has inadvertently lead you to end up here. In sunny Bogotá, Colombia.** _

**_It’s just as hard appoint a certain moment as the beginning of you and Javier Peña. You_ ** **could** _**say it is when you decided to move here, but without marrying Todd Flores at the ripe age of 23 first, the matter of a new life in South America wouldn’t even have come up. Eventually separating from Todd** _ **might have been** _**a strong push in this direction, but it still had nothing to do with Javier.** _

_**But, let’s see—** _

Maybe you were doomed as soon as the moving truck dropped off whatever earthly belongings you had with you in Colombia, the day you were finally moved into a cozy, embassy-issued apartment on the first floor of the block. Large as it was, the convenient two-story house you had been sharing with Todd Flores for the past several years had never felt as cramped and hollow as it did for the previous weeks, and there were admittedly only so many nights you could spend couch-surfing in the tight circle of friends you had here. 

Moving out from your marital home — _fingers-firmly-crossed it would be ex-marital by the end of the following month_ — was very well past due time. But things in the scenic country had started heating up just as the dying flame between you and your husband had been put out. For good, this time around. The politic scene was something that concerned the both of you in a way or another. At the end of the day, you were two busy people, doing busy stuff at busy jobs. 

In hindsight, you admit that you _may_ have been a little too harsh with that poor guy from the moving company. You no longer remember what the small disagreement was about, the one that managed to chase away Emmanuel — a prideful young man with a chiselled face and a crooked nose — sooner rather than later. Some unkind words were exchanged, surely, so you can only hope that neither does he remember, and that he has an unbothered and happy life now. 

(He doesn’t. He would get a bullet in his head few days later… narcos business, perhaps, but you wouldn’t ever find out about this.) 

But the argument itself wasn’t relevant to our story, anyway.

Instead, the heart of the matter was the following: you were left standing on the sidewalk outside of the apartment block alone, sweaty and bent out of shape. In your experience so far, late winter weather in Bogotá meant that you could now comfortably ditch the long, black leather jacket — a decades-old second-hand piece from New York City — for the pleasant daytime. Certainly _not_ that the sun would try burning you into ashes if you dare putting on so much as a ratty, loose festival tee and jean — a perfectly fitting, leisure attire for a move-in day. 

Looking at the bright side of things, you at least had somewhere to sit down… seeing that Emmanuel was nice enough _not_ to run off with your sizeable, new, purple couch and the remainder of your packed-to-the-brim cardboard boxes _just because_ he had gotten a _little_ upset with you. 

How the hell you were going to get it all inside alone was a mystery you were way too flustered to solve on the spot. Fortunately, this was where Javier Peña decided to come into the picture, like deus ex machina or some such. 

You had decided to make use of the couch, laying down and wallowing freely in an ocean of self-pity to pass some time — a brave thing to do on the streets with two big boxes branded FRAGILE sitting right beside you, but you were _slightly_ nihilistic those first few months following the break-up with Todd. Holding onto things felt unnecessary after experiencing the feeling of everything you thought precious slipping through your fingers like tiny splinters of glass; wounding and irrevocable. 

Also, you _totally_ got to feel like the sulking heroine of a classic romcom.

More than fifteen minutes couldn’t have passed since Emmanuel’s rather dramatic exit when another car, a Jeep, took over its spot on the other side of the road. Its door was closed with a loud slam, making you turn your head and pry an eye open, only to be immediately hit with the sudden urge to roll them with the same momentum. 

Honestly, you could have expected this. Should have seen it coming prominently from miles away — _of course_ you were moved into a DEA building. You were, after all, DEA in a sense. Well, only in a very loose sense. But you were.

So it shouldn’t have come as big of a surprise as it did to see Javier Peña, in all of his unfairly attractive, sun-kissed glory, swaggering up to a stop in front of your horizontal figure. He unconsciously blocked the blinding sun, which you were much grateful for, and he brought a hand to relax at the top of his jeans, low on his hips. 

“I have to say, cariño, you gotta be the fanciest homeless person I’ve ever seen.”

You remember thinking _fucking hilarious,_ suppressing the need to roll your eyes all the way to the back of your head. That would’ve been rude, right? You weren’t annoyed with him, after all — only with Emmanuel, Todd Flores, Pablo Escobar, and… _well_.

“Not homeless, fortunately.” You sat up, running your palms down the length of your thighs before gesturing around you. “Only stranded and low on muscle power. The guy from the moving company kinda bailed.”

“Oh, you’re new here?”

You tilted your head incredulously. _Did he not–?_ “Well, here as in where?”

“Bogotá.” 

_Oh God, he did not._

“No,” you shook your head, desperately trying _not_ to burst out laughing, “only to this building. I just moved into apartment 1D.”

Javier Peña just hummed, nodding his head slowly. An amused smirk curled his lips as he not-so-subtlety checked you out — I repeat, you wore an ensemble that made you feel as though you had been plucked out from a stinking trashcan, so you weren’t entirely sure what he could’ve possibly seen there — which only solidified your suspicion. The _motherfucker_ didn’t recognise you. 

It wasn’t like you were seeing much of him at the embassy; you were lucky enough to have your own office in a dusty corner of the basement level. Working in the legal department, you were more of a metaphorical cleaning lady than a fighter, tied to a desk while trying to legalise and account all the mess he, Steve Murphy, and the other guys make/try to lessen — it depended on the situation. In other words, could easily slip one’s mind if they didn’t look back behind their shoulder. Or aimlessly walk down the secluded parts of the hallway. It wasn’t something you were going to be offended by.

However, you had been introduced to him on Todd’s behalf during a work related dinner a few years ago, and you assumed that of Todd, Javier Peña had to be seeing a lot. (You pity the guy). 

So wasn’t that supposed to be enough? 

Apparently not.

“Sounds like I should help a neighbour in need out, then.” You could barely help your eyes from bulging out like a cartoon figure’s as Javier Peña let out a low chuckle, picking up one of the boxes from the ground and heading inside. _Was he being genuinely nice, or was he being a_ nice guy? Big difference. “Guard that flashy couch, and I’ll be right back.”

In the end, it took the two of you together less than 20 minutes to get you all settled-in. _OK_ , settled-in was a little too confident, but at least you had everything inside the apartment now. 

Javier sticked around until the coffee machine was set up — priorities still crystal clear, — and even could be persuaded into pushing a few tables and dressers around with you. 

_Nice? Nice guy?_

Regardless of the surprisingly great company he kept, you couldn’t shake the stress out of your mind. _Nice? Nice guy? Nice? Nice guy?_

The sedate afternoon passed with light conversation; merely a flirty banter, some light teasing, and a couple of witty comebacks — all things Javier Peña as you expected him to be at the time, and all things you didn’t have in yourself to take too seriously anymore. 

But you liked to believe you had become somewhat metamorphic over the years; accommodating certain situations, matching people’s energies was the only way to survive amongst the bureaucratic wolves Todd Flores surrounded himself with. So if over ten years of being married to the son of a bitch had gifted you something, so be it this quality. Plus, Javier’s steady flow of compliments wasn’t _entirely_ unrequited, caressing such shrouded parts of your ego that hadn’t been cherished in a long while. 

You decided he was _nice_.

Realisation of your acquaintanceship, however, didn’t dawn on Javier until some picture frames emerged from that first box he’d brought in from outside. You were looking to show him the only picture you had of your time at Woodstock Festival, piling photo after photo onto his lap as you searched through the contents of the box. 

A bugging feeling that you were familiar from somewhere had been eating Javier for a while by then. Not immediately, but the more time he spent in your apartment, the more familiar the way you moved around the place seemed.

But he couldn’t quite place you until he eventually came face to face with the same exact picture of you smiling playfully at the camera on top of the pile that used to brighten Todd Flores’ office at the embassy. It all clicked then — resting his eyes at your black and white portrait during many of Flores’ dull lectures, shaking your hand at that dinner party where you had worn that utterly ravishing black V-cut dress… 

Now that he came to, Javier found it incredulous that he could have let it slip in the first place. 

You were sporting a different hair colour and style now, (and were at least a decade younger behind the camera), sure, but it was the same exact you that was currently kneeling on the hardwood floor of the apartment next to his own, amusedly showing him a photograph of her teenaged-self _absolutely zooted_ in the mosh pit of a Credence Clearwater Revival concert.

(Javier thought saw Mrs Flores, and by name, you might have been still. But even then, it was already something entirely different. You were.)

What more is left to say there, you didn’t see much of Javier Peña for the remainder of that month, be it involuntary or his deliberate intention. 

_**But, based on the butterfly effect theory, the Javier Peña situation could have started when you befriended Connie Murphy, Peña’s partner’s wife from the apartment upstairs.** _

After all, with the both of you being die-hard fans of Stanley Kubrick, Fleetwood Mac, and Post-Impressionism, two religious farmer’s market goers, café au lait drinkers, and dry wine favourers, it was a matter of _when_ and not _if_ , the two of you finally coming upon each other.

The natural order of things, if you’d like. 

Kindred spirits, as you preferred.

Existing with Connie felt like a breath of fresh air. Maybe because where you lacked, she filled in the void with an according piece of herself, and when she got a little bit too overwhelmed away, as she would, you were there to reach out, grabbing her by the ankle and pulling her back down onto Earth. Or maybe, it was the shared experience of being dragged away from your home and into this mess of a foreign country by a spouse. 

Nevertheless, it was easy to offer Connie bits and bits of yourself and just continue to breath calmly, revealing your soul in all of its nakedness because Connie Murphy didn’t demand or take — instead, she listened, remembered, and actually gave the best damned advice. Or simply just told you that “ _Baby, you’re being a fucking idiot_ ,” without much beating around the bush.

And let’s be honest, it was also pretty convenient, having a best friend that lived only a thirty-second journey away from your own doorstep – forty-five if you were tired, a minute if you were too drunk to walk up the stairs without tripping over your own foot. 

So maybe the dawn of your affair with Javier Peña arose on the evening you got wound up in a Murphy family dinner for the first time, with the table in the dim, broad dining room set for four. A plate intended for Javier beside your own. 

He was late — not entirely out of character, as you’d come to learn later. He’d rang Steve up earlier from the embassy that he would be, and just as promised, he breezed in like the sudden chill of a summer evening halfway through the main course. Mustard-stuffed chicken, your mum’s recipe with a spark of Connie’s unquestionable cooking excellence. 

Albeit, the breeze metaphor was terribly misaimed — Javier resembled a hurricane more, had all but stormed in to the apartment, with his eyebrows creased deeply in annoyance. He was running his thumb up and down the length of his pointer finger, itching for a cigarette already even after just putting out the previous one in his car.

“Sorry for the delay, I got, well, fucking Flo— uh, I’ll tell you about it later.” Javier addressed his last words to Steve, briskly hanging his jacket before his eyes took in the room, and the mirthful sight of you with it. 

If he let his eyes quickly run down the floral-printed, fitted blouse you were wearing, well, you didn’t seem to take a notice of it, shooting a welcoming smile his way from behind a glass of wine, inviting red lips imprinted on the brim. Javier sighed, willing his shoulders to ease as he all but collapsed onto the chair next to you. 

Gesturing to your forehead, he said your name lightly, “A _pleasure_ to see you again. Big fan of the bangs.”

You huffed a laugh both at the compliment, and at Steve’s barely audible scoff that probably indicated that Javier was in the minority. No hard feelings towards Murphy, though — it was admittedly very clumsily chopped, plus the poor soul had accidentally answered the phone instead of Connie that morning when you’d called, breathlessly sobbing into the receiver. 

“Thanks, I’m—” you said, brushing through the short strands of hair scarcely in your eyes, “I’m not quite so sure about them, yet.”

Connie hid a smile in her fist, an insider to the origin story of your newest messy hairstyle. Under almost half a tube of concealer, you kept two Russia-sized eye bags a secret, the evidence of the brutal hangover that haunted you as a punishment for the night before. Spent alone in your apartment with a horrible mix of Sangria and vodka, the high-pitched voice of Debbie Harry, black streaks of make-up running down your face, and a pair of kitchen scissors… _well_ , you certainly had quite the blast. 

Just as Todd had seemed to have _quite the blast_ with a familiar head of blonde curls in the parking lot of the embassy earlier that day — a thanks is due to every deity guiding your path that you had managed to refrain from buying box dye. That would have been a completely different type of tragedy. Greek.

“You should be. It suits you very well,” Javier looked at you from the corner of his eye, white glinting with something and the pale light of the room, as he started dishing out himself some food. A faint heat bloomed on your cheeks at the compliment. 

“Oh.” 

But before you could express another timid gratitude, Steve threw a question in Javier’s way, and the matter of the fringe suddenly became over-discussed. 

There was a shy kick at your shin, and you looked up from your plate to meet Connie’s eyes sparkling with an unidentifiable amusement across the table. She shot a look at the two men already deeply in conversation, then wiggled her eyebrows discreetly, at which you shook your head with a quiet, dismissive huff, and the matter of Javier Peña complimenting your fringe suddenly became over-discussed.

And… 

_Listen._ You _hate_ to admit this, but… 

The bangs stayed for a while — a short while, but they did stay.

_**Then, if we want to be factual, the whole thing technically started on a Wednesday, the second week of March.** _

Neither you or Javier were strangers to late nights at the office — you maybe even a little less than, as you basically owned a spare key to the floor at this point. It came in handy on the occasions that grew more and more frequent when the janitor physically couldn’t wait up with you anymore. You’d tried compromising with the night guards, but they stated that they were no doormen. Which, wasn’t technically true in your opinion, but somehow was at the same time.

Could you blame a recently divorced woman, who didn’t really have anything left in this country for her, that rightfully felt a little lost, but grew all too attached to the cause, for drowning herself in unpaid overtime?

(Please say no.)

Plus, even if you were at home, you wouldn’t have been sleeping. At least here you could do something useful with the extra waking hours. 

So, accordingly, that faithful Wednesday, too, was just another one of these certain days. Nights.

Sitting at your desk and slouching over a CIA report from the week before, you hadn’t even noticed the night silently passing its cleavage, carrying the new day. Looking up from the papers with burning eyes, you stretched the fingers of your dominant hand as your jaded gaze fell upon the watch on your wrist. It was unutterably late, and by making the third grammatical mistake on an administrational copy, you’d been finally convinced of just that. 

It was high time you went home. 

You weren’t necessarily surprised to find Javier Peña at his desk still on your way out, nursing a glass of what you assumed to be whisky. He was busy with a stack of his own paperwork, although his movements, rugged and heavy, painfully lacked that ease you perfectly knew some rest would move him with. 

He almost looked somewhat romantic, and undeniably picturesque as the sole soul in the dark office — as the warm, dim light of his desk lamp illuminated his face, his prominent features casting shadows over his skin. 

If Javier Peña was a painting right then and there, he’d have been the kind you and Connie loved admiring so bad, the kind you two could spend hours talking about over a coffee after seeing it in the Museo Nacional. 

Your marvelling was interrupted, though, as a heavy yawn you failed miserably to suppress managed to grab Javier’s attention from whatever he had been working on, his tired eyes matching yours as he looked up at your form by the door. 

He breathed your name in slight confusion, tone low regardless of it obviously being just the two of you there. “What are you still doing here? It’s late.”

It was unreasonable; to be surprised at your presence at such ungodly time. But he didn’t know about your late nights, and you wanted to keep it that way.

On a second thought, you could’ve just sneaked out then.

“Late? Haven’t even noticed.” You shrugged, the genuine concern playing on his features making you snicker a little bit. “I could ask the same question, you know.”

“Well, I’m probably doing whatever you’ll be doing next week, cariño,” Javier supplied, taking a sip of his drink.

_Yeah, he’s probably right,_ you agree with a nod. You had just put to rest whatever one of the CIA guys had been doing last week in your office. 

The role you had in the embassy was one pretty simple — you did administrative work; accounted and reported everything the joined US forces against drug trafficking were doing here in Colombia, all the while overseeing its legality. Only _slightly_ anticlimactic compared to the upward career you had rising back in the States, but 8 years was plenty enough time to grow roots in a soil that wasn’t your responsibility to seed. 

“You should go home. And _sleep_ ,” Javier said, leaning back in his chair. “I can hear you doing absurd shit at like three fucking am, you know. You should be sleeping.”

“Creep,” you scoffed, scrunching up your nose in playful disgust. It was feeble under the weight of the hopes for dropping the matter, but managed to earn a smile from him. Your recent sleeping habits weren’t something you wished to discuss in the office at midnight with your colleague, who surely had enough of his own problems to deal with — he was still there too, after all. 

Javier stayed maddeningly silent for a moment, the weight of his scrutinising gaze draped heavy over your body, urging your eyes to avert despite your best efforts to remain neutral. 

“Shame on the one who thinks evil of it.” Javier shrugged eventually. You willed a corner of your mouth to curl, hoping he dropped the matter with that. It wasn’t his duty to care, anyways. “I _meant_ that I can hear you over there, like, baking… painting… doing gymnastics… crashing down the floor… renovating the whole block…”

“OK-OK, Javier, I get it. Apparently I’m not as quiet as I thought I was,” you said, raising your palms in mock surrender. “D’you really hear all that?”

“Only when you keep dropping stuff, yeah. The walls are paper fucking thin, cariño.”

If Javier’s narrowed eyes were anything to go by, you might have believed he was scolding you, but you couldn’t find real accusation in his tone. Not something you could identify as such, at least, and that was enough. 

You leaned against the door, switching your purse between two hands. Your limbs were heavy, almost achingly so, the uncomfortable support of the metallic frame exceptionally a welcomed one in this case. Javier was probably right, you _should_ sleep… much easier said than done. 

“Yeah? They are?” Your lighthearted giggle was a bit muffled by a siren crying out from somewhere outside. Bogotá never slept either. “Fucking keep that in mind, then.”

Luckily, it wasn’t bedroom walls you two shared, as you had found out one morning a few weeks ago when you somehow ended up having a coffee with Javier at his place. Still, a record like his forgoes a man — even though Javier himself was much more discreet than you’d initially thought he would be, — and that went without a single drop of hostility. Bedroom business should be kept between the people present in said bedroom (or, well, _whatever_ room), hence why you didn’t want to be even just the ear witness of such activities… 

… _especially_ when they involved Javier Peña. 

You were at no position to restrict him as his neighbour, you unfortunately knew that, but hearing his performance would have definitely made your mission of suppressing a certain type of curiosity harder. 

See, that dinner at the Murphy’s had been somewhat of a turning point in you and Javier’s… _acquaintanceship._ You’d had your sneaking suspicions of the man purposefully avoiding you before, and these assumptions had only proved to be correct when Javier had suddenly started lingering after he’d walked you to your door from Steve and Connie’s place that night. 

Lingering in the hallways of the apartment building when you two crossed paths, by the coffee machine in the office during lunch break, at the bar down the street when you there met by chance. Swift minutes filled with meaningless chitchat, passing compliments, and a certain charm that Javier Peña couldn’t, for the life of him, detach from his exterior. 

It felt friendly — or would have if only you didn’t have stray thoughts of him sticking his tongue down your throat… or _other places_. The man was easy on the eyes, your exact type before getting together with Todd down to a tee, so could you be blamed? Regardless of the daydreams, it wasn’t like you set on achieving anything. _If it happens, it happens,_ you guessed. According to Aleta, your sole confidante other than Connie, having a high desire after divorce was more than normal — and she’d know, as having been there three times already.

Anyway. There was that. 

Javier let out a hearty chuckle, leaving a smirk in its wake. He slowly tilted his head to the side as he looked up at you, knocking back the last long sip of his drink. In this angle, he faint glow of the lamp casted a marvellous shadow of his eyelashes on the height of his cheeks.

“Really, you should go.” 

“One would think you’re trying to get rid of me,” you muse a bit unsurely, earning another chuckle from the man. _Good_ , very good, because you were half-serious. “Actually, I was hoping to catch a ride. Steve drove me in the morning.”

Connie made Steve do stuff like that sometimes; bringing you cookies to work, bringing you lunch to work, bringing _you_ to work… pretty convenient, and you didn’t mind not having to drive for once.

“Sure, you can.”

Even though it obviously was just a feeble bait to drag him out of here with you, Javier accepted it, nodding his head as he gathered a few stuff from his table. He didn’t bother with the glass, only turned off the desk lamp, drowning the office in a distorted darkness. An empty, lifeless office was bizarre, nevertheless how used to it you actually were.

Javier shrugged on his jacket in the darkness, meeting you by the door as he stuffed a file under his elbow. A hand ghosted over the small of your back as he led you down the vacant, deformed hallway. 

_**Even in hindsight, you still couldn’t pinpoint when the air had shifted.**_

It could have been a particularly sultry story from your collage years that you mindlessly brought up, and which you immediately regretted telling, long before you heard Javier sucking in a heavy breath from the driver’s seat. (Maybe tales of passionate, late-night rendezvous at Georgetown’s campus weren’t the ideal topic with someone you allegedly would not like to sleep with…)

But it could’ve been the disguised compliment he made about your ass in this certain, dark brown pencil skirt you were wearing just the same. Or your comment about the moustache. Or the calming, sleep improving white tea you claimed to have inside.

(So much for not making a move.)

Either way, it was little wonder that after walking you to your door, Javier kept to his new habit, and lingered along.

You faltered. “So, listen. You could, I don’t know… you know, if you’d like to—”

Javier saved you from having to finish that rambling, (were you ever going to, though, that was the million dollar question), bringing your lips to his with a hand firmly on the back of your head — bold, yet the core of your intentions not misread. 

At all. It seemed that the quiet, persistent craving in the pit of your stomach had been begging for long enough to deserve relief.

“Fuck the tea,” Javier whispered into your mouth, trailing his lips towards your jaw with wet kisses. Enough for the tension in your stomach to painfully clench as he backed you into the door, but not to leave marks. 

“Hey,” you gasped, slapping his shoulder playfully. “It’s, uh, Harney and Son’s. My, uh, favourite kind of—”

Javier nibbled at your ear, voice merely a low groan breathed into the skin of your neck. “Cariño, open the door.”

Well, since he asked so nicely.

Every step you took — be it the metaphorical ones crossing a line of consequences you cared not to think about in this brazen haze, or the physical ones toward the living room because there’s no way you’d last farther with your chest already bare, and his own shirt pooling with yours by the dresser, — Javier Peña seemed hell-bent on matching in suit. 

“Look at you, gorgeous. So fucking hot. _Soft_ ,” he sighed, running his thumbs over the hill of your breasts. “You’ve put my imagination to shame.”

Javier swallowed the wanton whine that escaped your lips when he finally removed the last item of clothing that had separated your scorching bodies, the flavour of your famished desire addictive on his tongue, and _fuck_ – it felt so good to be touched by another person again, by fingers that you couldn’t figure on, a choreography you couldn’t predict. To be kissed at places you could never reach yourself.

You’re going to be honest, you had never been so profoundly fucked into a mattress before. The song of your pleasure was muffled by the seat of the purple couch that the two of you had carried inside together when you came, perched on the pillowed armrest as Javier stood behind you, chasing his own release by pounding into your warmth tirelessly. He firmly held your wrists together with one hand on your back, pressing nonsense patterns into the tense muscle of your shoulder with the other one. 

He left a trail of sloppy, open-mouthed kissed on the line of your spine after he came, and several hours later into the night when daylight first teased its arrival, he parted from you with a kiss goodnight at the door that obscenely tasted of both of your pleasures. 

_**Yes. It started something like this.** _

**Author's Note:**

> come hang on tumblr @rinacriedpower <3


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